


Oxygen After Asphixia

by PhoenixandMuser



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixandMuser/pseuds/PhoenixandMuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after they establish a new criminal empire, Sebastian flees and begins to doubt that Jim is the same person he had always protected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oxygen After Asphixia

Be it in the clean, openness of a countryside landscape comparable to fantasy worlds; in the polluted, industrious cities; or in my own bedroom, with thin, twisting trails of smoke rising from my cigarette, I could never breathe. I would escape to various places - different in most aspects, but alike in the way of solitude- yet it never made any difference.  
It would come, after days of lying in the grass, on the rooftops, on unfamiliar hotel beds, in my own bed, the moment that I sat upright and let out a weak sigh. It would be heavy with defeat, but it would do nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. I can’t remember how long it took for the realisation to dawn upon me, in fact, that realisation itself kept slipping from memory.   
The last time I remember being able to truly breathe was on my knees before him, skin broken and cheeks red, when he was choking me.

 

On my impromptu getaways, I would sometimes find myself by the sea. This usually happened in the height of summer, where the sun would scorch the back of my neck, and the sand would singe the soles of my feet. Times after that, I would deem it better to go somewhere colder, and the ground would be thick with snow.   
I could hear the sifting of sand as it was displaced around my feet, or the slow creak and crunch of the snow as it compacted beneath my boots. The sounds would be slow, quiet, and rhythmic, which should have been calming. In the same way that should I stand atop a hill and draw in a breath as deep and slow as I could, it would feel as if no oxygen ever reached my lungs, the steps I took felt as if they left no imprint. I’m sure that I could have seen them, if I had looked, but I always kept my eyes up, watching the shore, or gazing at the thick, blank clouds. 

Eventually, I would turn back, defeated as always. After hours, or maybe even days in transit, I would reach the doorstep upon which I would slowly begin to regain my own existence. 

It would be on my ascent up the path of his town house that I understood; the only time my footsteps would move me forward was when I walked towards him. My existence is entwined with his, and should he decide to ignore me, I would be dead to the rest of the world as well. It is on his doorstep now that I understand that, even as a man of questionable morals and vicious, bloody history, I am incapable of going back on my word.

I unlock the door, and push it open. The house is eerie. Closing the door behind me, I ascend the stairs, and softly it comes to me, his low sorrowful voice crooning and sighing along to an unfamiliar song. It feels like I’ve been deafened until now, and as I come closer, his voice rings through with a renewed clarity.

I see him through the gap in the door, which he has left ajar. On some level, I am certain he has registered my return, but he continues to sway and sing, arms above his head, spindly fingers raking through his raven hair. The door swings open with only the lightest brush of my fingertips, and I approach him. I can see his soft stomach, and protruding hipbones in the gap between his t-shirt and track bottoms, so I slip my hands beneath the fabric and pull him close. He doesn’t stop, but I dip my head down, to bury my face against his neck and breathe him in. His scent, although soft, burns my nose and throat, and the heat radiating from his body floods my own with fire. All the while, he sings along about it being too cold.

The room is dark, light from outside struggling to claw its way through the gaps in the blinds. There’s no colour in here, but Jim has turned around to face me, arms around my neck, and the greyscale world I had navigated slowly becomes more saturated.

I feel like I should know that a man such as myself should never expect anything akin to what is considered normal. I feel foolish for the times I let the fact that Jim has changed take me off guard. The man who wipes someone else’s blood from my skin while he kisses me could never be the same as the boy who trailed behind me on the way home from school, skinny arms wrapped around heavy tomes. But I remember this glassy eyed, distant look he has, and it makes me question if I ever truly knew him before.   
He’s speaking now, in a low murmur. His hands have found their way into my hair, and he strokes it with a tenderness that makes me doubt I have ever actually seen a different side to him but this. I exhale, and I can tell he senses the moment I give in. His arms curl around me possessively. They’re restricting, and his sharp nails bite into my skin beneath my closes. I feel free.

**Author's Note:**

> "All I am is a man, I want the world in my hands"  
> Sweater Weather - The Neighbourhood


End file.
